by Emmy Grace
“I do not have fourteen suspects picked out,” I defend. When Regina just stares at me, I add softly, “Just two.”
“Okay, spill. Who?”
I can feel my excitement mounting as I lean in to give her the details. “You know Petey, right?”
Regina wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Ginger Creep?”
I nod.
When we were kids, Regina and I had a code, a way of talking about boys and parties and things of that nature without Momma Leona or Beebee figuring it out. We would refer to people by an outstanding physical characteristic rather than their name. We did it for so long, it has continued into our adult years. Due to his washed-out red hair and mangy looking beard, and his generally creepy disposition, Petey became Ginger Creep. All the guy lacks are a gold tooth and a van with rust-colored shag carpet covering the walls.
“He showed up at the scene fast. Even before Chief Sheriff got there. Almost like he was expecting it.”
“You think he did it?”
“I don’t know about him actually doing it, but maybe he knows who did. Maybe he’s part of it.”
“Interesting.” Regina bobs her head slowly, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Next?”
“You know the farm where I landed?” She nods. “Well, the owner showed up a little after Clive did. He was really surly and sharp, and he was vague about where he’d been. Too vague, in my opinion.”
My best friend’s expression shows her doubt on this one. “Eh, I don’t know about that. That seems pretty weak to me. I mean, why would the guy choose his own property? That would immediately cast suspicion on him. And why would he then be vague about his alibi? It should’ve been ironclad.”
“Those are both good questions, but if you could’ve seen the way he acted when Clive said he thought it was Martin Vickerman. And then when he asked if Liam knew Vickerman.”
“What did he say?”
“He said no, of course.”
“Then what makes you think he did?”
“Oh, that guy is hiding something. No doubt in my mind. I just don’t know exactly what.”
“But you intend to find out, right?”
“Of course. You know I could never let something like this go. Besides—” I try to stop myself before I get into the one aspect of this I’m not so eager to discuss. The part about the note.
“Besides?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t even know what I was going to say.” I try to play it off, but she’s not having any of it.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Don’t you even try that with me.” Regina is too astute to miss anything. And she’s too dang stubborn to let anything go either. Of course, she says the same thing about me. I suppose it’s one of the many traits we have in common.
My exhalation is heavy. “It’s just that… The guy had been stabbed, too. And there was a note.”
She curls her lip in disgust. “What did it say?”
“It was weird. It said, ‘Let’s see how lucky you are now’.”
“That’s kind of a weird note, don’t you think?” I nod. “What could it mean?”
“I assumed it was an inside kind of thing, but Liam…”
“Who is this Liam person?”
“The property owner.”
“Oh. William. William Dunning. The second.” She adds the last in an accent and tone that Batman’s butler, Alfred, would be proud of.
“You don’t… You mean like Mayor William Dunning?”
“That would be daddy. He’s William Dunning the first. This guy is William Dunning the second. Part deux.” She holds up two fingers. “The locals call him ‘Slick Willie.’ Evidently his politics aren’t always squeaky clean. There was even talk that he was involved in some counterfeiting that was suspected.”
“Hmmmm. That sure makes things interesting.”
“Okay, sorry. So, what were you saying about Slick Willie Junior?”
“When I asked him about his alibi—”
“You what? You flat-out asked him?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Good Lord, Lucky, don’t you have a bit of couth? He’s the mayor’s son and I think he used to do work for the government or something.”
The government?
“Well, I needed answers, and I didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush about it.”
Regina shakes her head like I’m a lost cause. “You’re like dog with a bone when it comes to this murder-death-kill kinda stuff, aren’t you?”
“I can’t help it, but the idea that anyone could think that I had anything to do with actually committing a murder is beyond ridiculous.”
“He thinks you’re involved?”
“He pointed out the use of the word ‘lucky.’ Said that was strange wording.”
“Can’t really argue that, I don’t suppose.”
I reach forward, grabbing my friend’s forearm. “Regina, what if this is about me somehow? Not that I’m involved, but what if it could be aimed at me? I mean, the body did almost take out my parachute on the way down.”
“Speaking of the parachute, did you bring it back?”
“Uhhhh.” Oops.
“Never mind. I’ll have Dax go fetch it. Sorry. You were saying?”
“What if that whole thing was intentional? What if someone was trying to kill me?”
“Who on earth would want to hurt you? And why?”
“I can name about seven people back home who have probably thought about it at least once.”
I don’t have to spell it out. She knows exactly to whom I’m referring.
“You moved away, Luck. How could they even find you?”
“You know how determined they can be.”
“So, you’re telling me one of them tracked you down several states away, then found a random guy to try and kill you with? That would make a great Twilight Zone episode, but this is real life. I just don’t see it happening.”
“Maybe not, but I have to at least keep it in mind.”
“Don’t dwell on it, Lucky Duck. That’s not what this is about. Focus on the facts, on the real suspects. Put this other nonsense out of your mind.” She pats my knee reassuringly. I smile and nod, but I know it will be there, in the back of my mind, until I find out the who and the why of this murder.
“You’re right.” To my ears, I don’t sound the least bit convincing, but Regina seems to disagree. She drops it.
“So, what’s your next move?”
“First of all, I need to figure out who this guy was, assuming it was Vickerman.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. Internet. Hello?”
“Yep. And then I need to figure out how in the world he fell from the sky. Maybe research planes and helicopters, look into the airfield, and that hangar that’s out there. That’s the only possible explanation, right? I mean, I doubt the guy was launched from a cannon.”
“No, but what a cool murder would that be?”
I grin. “Very cool!”
“We’re gross people, you know that?”
“You say gross. I say curious and imaginative. Tomato, tom-ato.”
A knock sounds at the door. This time, Regina is the one to peek between the blinds. “It’s Snuffleupagus,” she whispers.
I frown and get up to answer the door. I open it and give my landlord a smile. She’s the owner of the house behind which my spacious converted carriage house is located. “Good morning, Mrs. Stephanopoulos.”
Regina and I call her Snuffleupagus because her nose is a long, droopy affair that has a bit of a trunk appearance, just like the memorable Sesame Street character. I just wish she were as sweet and gentle. Mrs. S. is anything but.
“Mornin’, girl. I heard about what happened. Came to see if you’re okay.”
With her ever-present frown in place, she leans through the door as much as she can without pushing me out of the way. Mrs. S. is nosey, as her long snout and matching moniker would imply.
“I’m fine, Mrs. S.”
“
Brought you some fried Snickers. I hear sugar and deep-frying makes everything better. Sounds like utter nonsense to me, but it’s the South, so...” She shrugs and thrusts a plate at me.
“Aw, thank you. That’s so thoughtful.”
“Don’t mention it. So, uh...” She tries to peek around me again.
Finally, I relent. “Would you like to come in?” I back out of the way.
She steps in enough to take a gander. She spots Regina and her frown deepens. Not who she was hoping for, I suppose. “No, no. Just wanted to make sure all was in order.” She goes back out to the stoop. “You know, you can come to me if you’re in some sort of trouble. I might be old, but I know people. I have resources.” She starts nodding. I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince, me or herself.
“I appreciate that, Mrs. S. I’m okay, though. I’m not in trouble.”
“If you’ve been marked for death, you’ll need help.”
“Marked for—? Mrs. Stephanopoulos, I think you’ve been watching too many Steven Seagal movies.”
“Think what you want, but these things happen. It’s a crazy world out there. You can never be too careful.” She leans in close and whispers, “Do you have protection?”
My first thought is definitely not the kind of protection she means.
“You mean like a gun or something?”
“Of course, I mean a gun. You’re a young, attractive female. You can’t leave yourself vulnerable.”
“I’m not vulnerable, Mrs. S. I—”
“I’ll bring you one of mine. We can go to Old Tom Spitz’s shooting range one day and I’ll show you how to use it.”
Her bushy gray eyebrows are wiggling rhythmically, like two big, fat dancing woolly worms. It’s as mesmerizing as it is distracting.
“I’m a good shot. I can teach you all you need to know.”
“I’m... That’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’m not afraid, Mrs. S. And I’m not in trouble.”
“But if you get in any,” she begins as she turns to leave.
“I’ll be sure to call you first thing.”
“You do that. I know what goes on in this town. And I know people. The right people. Don’t forget that.”
“Uh, okay. Thanks, Mrs. S.”
She’s still nodding as she limps along the walk that leads to her back door. When she reaches it, she throws up a hand to wave before ducking inside, leaving me to marvel at what just happened.
“What the heck was that all about?”
“I don’t even know, but I think I need to get to the bottom of this before the town thinks a league of assassins is after me.”
And hopefully prove that this had nothing to do with me.
Because hopefully it didn’t.
“Here,” Regina says, handing me a thin bag as she heads to the door. “This came today.”
“What is it?”
“Your next assignment.”
I look into the bag she pulled from her purse. “It looks like underwear.”
“It is.”
“Since when do I get things like this to test?”
Normally, since the higher-ups learned of my bizarre good luck, I get the trickier, more dangerous things to test. Not underwear.
Unless it’s tactical underwear and someone will be shooting at me while I’m wearing it.
Regina shrugs. “Sometimes it just works out that way.”
“Can’t someone else do it? I haven’t even written up my report for the goggles.”
“That’s fine. You can get them both to me in the next few days. Here’s the paperwork.” She hands me a thick, letter-sized envelope.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll get to it tonight or tomorrow.”
“Better be tonight.”
“Why?”
“Read the paperwork.” She wiggles her fingers at me, bidding me goodbye as she makes her way out the front door.
When she’s gone, I head toward the bedroom, tossing both the bag and the envelope onto my unmade bed before taking a seat at the small desk in the corner. I have more important things to do right now.
I open up my laptop, crack my knuckles, and get to work.
Lucky for me, there is a lot of information on Martin Vickerman. He’s a very wealthy developer that has projects that span the entire state of South Carolina. I click through the listings of his different developments, locating the name of one he’s working on in Salty Springs. It takes me to some town websites. From what I can tell, he’s trying to put a huge outlet shopping center just outside town limits by buying up land zoned rural, which is much cheaper by the acre. An article in the Salty Springs Sentinel says that the town planning commission agreed to rezone the properties to commercial as long as they’re within certain boundaries. There’s a link to a map that shows the proposed location and building plan. It takes me a minute or two to figure out exactly where the spread is located.
When I do, I realize what the surly Liam Dunning was hiding.
Oh, he knows Martin Vickerman, all right. Vickerman has bought out all the land surrounding Liam’s farm, which is in the exact center of the proposed mall site.
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type in possible resources for the information I’m seeking. I click and navigate until I find a petition, started by none other than Liam Dunning, to reverse the town decision to rezone for Vickerman. There’s an accompanying article in which Liam is quoted as saying that he’d “rather take a bullet to the head than sell to a shark like Vickerman.”
And he says he doesn’t know him. Ha!
“What I like to call this, Mr. Dunning,” I tell the empty room, “is motive.”
5
Chief Sheriff Sally called to remind me to come by the station and give my written statement. I feel like the universe is throwing me such a big bone that I can't not do some snooping while I’m here. It’s just too easy.
I stop at the receptionist’s desk, a position also held by Ruthie, the 911 operator. It didn’t take me long to figure out that, in Salty Springs, most things are all in the family. Case in point—Ruthie also happens to be Clive’s niece.
She looks up at me and smiles. With her light brown hair and eyes to match, she’s a cute girl, if a bit snaggle-toothed. Regina really needs to give her some lessons on using reflective surfaces to check one’s appearance. Poor Ruthie has a thick smear of hot pink lipstick across her top teeth.
“Well, if it isn’t Lucky. Guess you’re not feeling too lucky right about now, are you?” She laughs at her own cleverness and I patiently wait for her to stop. Obviously, she knows about the note, too, which makes me a little uneasy. Will everyone think I’m somehow involved?
“Not particularly. I’m here to give my official statement about the murder last night.”
“Murder? Where’d you hear there was a murder?”
“Uh, I was there.”
“You saw him get murdered?”
“He fell from the sky, Ruthie. So, uh, yeah.”
“The ME doesn’t know for sure what killed him yet. Could’ve been an accident.”
“The guy had an ice pick sticking out of his chest, a note underneath it, and he was either thrown from, pushed from, or jumped from some sort of aerial vehicle. I’m pretty sure there was foul play involved.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” she says with a shrug.
“I suppose that means nothing new has been discovered yet. Have they positively identified him?” When she doesn’t answer right away, I lean in like I’m telling her something valuable, like I’m in the know. Hopefully, Clarice here will engage in a little quid pro quo. “Clive thinks it’s Martin Vickerman.”
Ruthie eyes me suspiciously for a few seconds and then does some leaning in of her own. She checks left and right before she confirms. “He was right. It was Martin Vickerman. Poor fella. I can’t imagine who would want to kill him.”
“Did you know him?”
“Just casually. He was trying to do some good in this town, but you know how some people fe
el about change.”
“I do at that. Anyone in particular in mind?”
“Word is, he’d made an enemy of all sorts of people. The landowners, a contractor, the mayor. There was even some talk about him and his wife splitting up. Evidently, this whole mall thing kinda consumed him.” She shakes her head. “Pity. The whole thing.”
“Very interesting,” I mutter. When she gives me an odd look, I adopt a somber expression. “And sad. So sad and terrible.”
“I know it.”
“So, Ruthie, where do I go to give my statement?”
“Let me tell Clive you’re here.”
I play it smooth with Clive. My intention is to look into the leads Ruthie mentioned before I hit up the Chief Sheriff for information. I might only get one shot at that, so I need to make it count. Do for myself everything I possibly can.
When I leave the station, my car veers right instead of left, and, before I know it, I’m turning onto the rough, one-lane road that leads to Liam Dunning’s farm. I park in front of the barn, where he was parked last night, and get out. I call out, even stick my head into the barn, but don’t see or hear anyone in or around it. The place appears to be deserted.
I’m getting ready to get back in my car and go when I hear a distant clanging, like solid metal against solid metal. I walk around the barn, knowing the pasture where Martin Vickerman’s body landed is on the other side of it.
The South Carolina summer sun is shining, bright and hot, so I shield my eyes as I survey the scene. The first thing I notice is that the remains of Mr. Vickerman are gone.
The second thing I note is the swing of a sledgehammer glinting in the light. The third thing I notice is that Liam Dunning is wielding it, pounding away at a fence post.
He's shirtless, his broad back glistening with sweat. I can appreciate his masculine beauty without letting it get to me. I’ve had too many bad experiences with men to jump into anything here in Salty Springs.
I watch him set the sledgehammer aside and test the sturdiness of the new post by trying to wiggle it back and forth. I helped Old Man Babineaux set some fence posts around his chicken coop one summer back home. They were much smaller posts. More like stakes really, but still, it wasn’t easy work. Definitely not for the faint of heart or the frail of frame. If I tried to do something like that now, I’d probably pass out or give myself a compound fracture. I’m not in terrible shape, but I’m not in fence post planting shape either.
